Farming Breeds: Nick – the young farmer
Join us for a funny, irreverent look at some of the characters that make the British countryside what it is. Our tongue-in-cheek guide puts characters such as the retired Major, the “perfect” next-door farmer and the young tearaway under the microscope. Here we meet Nick – the young farmer, a well-known face at Young Farmers’ annual conventions…
Nick’s not happy. He’s back at work and, though it’s nearly a fortnight since Blackpool, he still hasn’t recovered. He had four hours’ sleep in the whole three days – two of them on the beach. It would have been longer, but the tide came in.
Nick travelled to the Young Farmers’ annual convention with a group of fellow club members. It was a long, uncomfortable journey, made only slightly more bearable by the eight cans of Boddies.
Nick had been to Blackpool conventions before. “What’s it like?” those who were going for the first time (AGM virgins) asked. “Like Ibiza, but cold,” he told them. It was, too. Music blaring from pubs and clubs along the seafront, bouncers on every door. Blackpool had to be about the only place, he reckoned, where DJs still played Right Said Fred. And it went down well.
He hasn’t missed a convention since he was 15. That’s 10 years ago. He remembers them all. Well, he doesn’t remember any of them in detail. They are all a vague blur of rude T-shirts, fancy dress and party breasts.
The first thing Nick and his mates did when they arrived was put on a pair of party breasts. They went to the hotel bar. They broke for a quick visit to some arcades and a walk along the beach in the rain, but then it was back to the pub.
The only time they took the party breasts off in the next three days was on Friday and Saturday night to don a shirt and tie for The Wintergardens dances.
He didn’t find out until after arriving back home that the DEFRA minister had been at the event. And the NFU president, apparently.
Though he didn’t see any of the speakers, he did see the contents of his stomach (three times) and he did see that girl he snogged last year in Bournemouth.
He bumped into her on Friday night. She careered across the dance floor towards him on someone’s shoulders. She didn’t look quite as good as he remembered. A little shorter and heavier. But by midnight she was looking better. “Has anyone told you before you look like Tulisa,” he whispered in her ear.
Though he didn’t see any of the speakers, he did see the contents of his stomach (three times) and he did see that girl he snogged last year in Bournemouth
Nick couldn’t find her on Saturday, but he did meet up with some friends of friends from the West Country as he danced to Hi Ho Silver Lining. One of them seemed particularly impressed with the way he stamped on her feet and they were soon on rather more familiar terms.
“Going for a hat-trick tonight are you?” Nick’s mates laughed on Sunday, as they donned wigs, sunglasses and big-collared shirts for the ’70s night. But he was too tired by then to consider pulling.
He had, however, managed to snatch a couple of hours’ sleep on the beach while his friends made sandcastles.
They had intended to build a rudely-shaped one, but found that human anatomy had already been well represented by the time they got to the seafront.
Now, a fortnight on, Nick’s skint. “Still,” he rues, “lap-dancing was never going to come cheap, was it.”